r \ -....., .. i . .. iÞ " 'y I ^ 1 l g .. '" ;.: " t< 48 lingeringly by the lily pond. We fall in love with each other, trail our hands in the brown water, write Sunday poetry full of sighs and sorrow . Never again is our theme at the age of fifteen or so: nevermore. It is true. Never again shall we be so near our Nunc Dimittis, nevermore feel so keenly the bliss of dying. We are doomed to Monday's racket, to men and children, uncom- fortable journeys, shopping lists, anxi- ety, the manipulation of dishwashers and washing machines and vacuum cleaners and cars; to lotions and vita- min-enriched creams, hair conditioners and deodorants, pots of this and that collecting in drawers and cupboards. We are doomed to become wombs on - . .' 000 <' .. q, 0/ . ",j ! I>> -- , f 1 > ""-....: I -- -- ". . )0, . A"., . ",I'. ".: ....^ . .A.."',," . '" - legs, to make telephone calls without the approprIate money, to beg, pledd, blackmaIl, weep, to make a terrible noise about living. How distressing, after the luminous melancholy of Sun- dav. I could become a nun, perhaps. Fold my hands just so. Glide on casters down cloIsters, my eyes downcast. Aft- er all that din, the peace of Guinevere. The most approximate element, in the meanwhile, is water I will go and float in the pool, folding all my sweet- ness up. Collecting together insect re- pellent, oil, towel, finding my way confidently through the maze of pas- sages, past closed doors, across unused cC> " LÞ\'" .. .<- ..., . ; ' '--- . .(,. o/Ä "", , : .-:;, . I - f f , , I APRI L 1 5, 1 9 7 4- lounges, escaping, I think, from Sun- day, I set out. .t IV T HE way to the pool is very straightforward, but for the first time I lose it and find myself in the vegetable garden, most bewIl- dered. The vegetable garden IS large, surrounded by a thick brick wall against which grow nectarines, peaches, plums, and (in their season) apples. The or- namen tal iron gate is missing-fallen at last from its rusty hinges, or sold for scrap in some emergency-which is why I wander straight into the garden. If there had been a gate, I would not have opened it. Screwing up my eyes against the sun, I look down the horders of Aaron's rod, poppies, and old-man's-beard, toward the green- houses. .i\ man in shirt- sleeves is digging la- boriously, his back to me, his righ t foot pushes the spade into the hard earth, then he loosens the earth and throws a spadeful aside, hIS distant back grim as a gra vedig- ger's. Assuming (not without reason) that he is a gardener, I loaf past the s tra w berry bed, approving the crimson berries lying in straw, ènjoying the change of scene. But they have everything here, black and red currants, gooseberries bursting out of their skins, log a n b err i e s, raspberries. The as- paragus thrives in its trench; row upon row of delicate carrot ferns marshalled in front of the talJer potato leaves, ca b bage and cauli- flower and broccoli, none of it gone to seed; sweet peas and rhubarb, green beans climbing up green string, abundant peas (I reach over the low, clipped hedge, wrench a pod from the stalk, split it with my thumb- nail, eat each nestlIng -., " t pea deliberately, while longing to cram them